Rules: Victory by pinfall, submission, or knockout. Hentai allowed.
As they lights illuminated the runway, the Sex Pistols played through the loudspeakers: God Save The Queen. A royal centipede erupted from behind the curtain. At its head was Muffette, tall, pink and red, with a parasol over her shoulder whose pastel canopy hung with a lacy train several inches around its circumference.
She was flanked left and right by two perfect rows of retainers, all stepping in sync with a bouncing cadence. Their uniforms varied. Some wore the dress and apron of a Victorian maid. Others donned something closer to a school girl’s uniform, and one gentleman wore the bicorne hat, tailcoat, breeches and boots of a 19th century English naval officer. What all had in common was stark black and white. Not an ounce of color sullied their starched canvas. As they slithered like a single organism towards the ring, their costumes rustled in time with their breath.
Huff huff huff huff.
When the procession reached the ring, two retainers stepped to Muffette’s sides, kneeled, took hold of her ankles and lifted her in a smooth arc into the ring. From this vantage, the former monarch of Waldorf-Sonderheim surveyed the tall, the sparkling, the churning Apex crowd.
Her Majesty the Princess
”Siegfried!” The voice of a speaker accustomed to addressing the masses from high balconies pierced the arena’s noise. Her back arch, she continued to scan the seats. ”Make a note in the Reflections of the Princess. March the twenty-fifth, in the sixth year of Her Majesty’s reign.”
Her loyal stenographer, wearing something reminiscent of a modern French gendarme, flicked out a booklet and began to scribble.
”Who is Skylar Jones? Her contemporaries have called her…psychotic. Someone who leaves her opponents not only defeated, but lessened. In some way…cracked. Such is her reputation in LAW.”
Muffette folded and lowered her parasol. The golden tip rested on the mat while the Princess held its handle two-handed. ”What will suffice to say such a monster has been conquered? Is defeat enough? The tap and the bell? No. No, the Princess has her own goal for this match. Today, Skylar will kiss the left royal asscheek—nay! She will suckle...Our ass cheek. When her lips have left our seat dripping. Hickie-pocked. Red from her adulation. Then and only then shall we leave her to stew. So says your Princess!”
The princess dropped her parasol’s tip against the mat, sending a metallic retort over the crowd. The ring-side centipede stamped its left row of feet and erupted: ”So say we all!”
